The Marauder's Choice
by Mint-Chocolate-Leaves
Summary: The year 1492. The Marauders need to choose - Loyalty and Friendship? Or Safety in numbers? Will Englands most know criminals succeed to rid the world of the gnarled minds who are causing the dark atmosphere in the british empire? Will they ever be able to go back to normal?
1. Prologue

Title: _The Marauder's Choice_

Character(s): _James. P + Remus. L_

Summary: _The year 1492. The Marauders need to choose - Loyalty and Friendship? Or Safety in numbers? Will Englands most know criminals succeed to rid the world of the gnarled minds who are causing the dark atmosphere in the british empire? Will they ever be able to go back to normal?_

Notes: _Okay... well please don't kill me, I know this was originally Werewolves&Co's idea, but I've been given full permission to adopt it.. I've started by going back over her writing to improve anything. I know I'm probably a terrible writer compared to her, but... tough luck. Reviews are appriciated, and Take Care!_

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Prologue

The executioners name was Robert Yaxley.

Because he was one of the king's guards, by nature he was all things bad: Uncouth, Impatient, dishonest, malevolent and full of hate. Sorrow was an unusual emotion for Robert Yaxley. Yet it seemed Anxiety was even rarer. However due to the fact that Yaxley was human, anxiety was sometimes inescapable, and insufferable.

As whispers and taunts of the other guards in the town buzzed in the far right corner of the jail courtyard, his lips pressed together into a tight line. The expression felt out of place on a face more accustomed to smirks and scowls.

Michael Carrow, his apprentice, saw the grimace and patted his shoulder,

"They're just curious Yaxley, let them curb their interests." He said quietly, his voice sounding uncertain,

"An execution Mr. Carrow is hardly an interesting or challenging procedure to carry it out. Any soul on the street could perform it in an emergency had they the right tools and the sanity to not break down. There's nothing these brutes of guards could learn by observing today's execution than at any other execution. I'm not a doctor Michael – I don't know what there is for them to gain. I'm basically doing their job on a stage." Yaxley was surprised to hear the sharp edge marring his usually calm and emotionless voice.

"They've never seen a marauder before." Michael said, his eyes darkening at the thought of the infuriating miscreants.

Yaxley raised one eyebrow, "Are they blind to each other's faces in the streets? Do they not fight them daily?"

"You know what I mean Sir – his execution. Finally we may prove to the whole of England what has become of these Marauders. We have let citizens hope that they will succeed, and now we get to destroy those who remain traitorous to us."

Yaxley looked into the cell where a teenage boy, probably only seventeen, was unconscious, sprawled face down on the cold stone floor, sleeping soundlessly. Glee swelled in his heart as he remembered the condition his mutilated, broken body had been in when the guards had brought him to the jail cell that the marauder was now occupying. Such pain he had endured… the copious amount of blood that he had been bleeding out…

And yet there was more to come. Of course he would have more than enough pain in the few following hours, Yaxley would be sure of that.

"He's the same as any criminal." Yaxley murmured to Michael, "They all do terrible things, and when he's woken up he will be disposed of in the same painful way we deal with everyone else. These guards are imbeciles; they think because they've caught one Marauder, they do not need to return to their posts."

"It's just exciting for them, that's all."

"The boy we kill today deserves less respect than he is being given. If they are to gawk at the boy's sleeping form, they should be near him causing him pain Carrow. Not talking between themselves and looking over at him from in a corner. Our prisoner is in quite the predicament, he knows that he's going to die, and so he doesn't spread even one ounce of a word about his precious organization or his team of maniacs so to speak. He deserves the pain and the torture." By this, Yaxley meant that the prisoner should be tortured to gain information. Yaxley heard the sharp edge return to his voice.

Michael patted him again, "It will be fine Sir, he'll beg us to let him tell his secrets, the guards need information and –"

At the word 'Guards', Yaxley gave Michael a look that could only be described as a glare. Michael blinked in shock, never before had he seen his mentor angry at him, it was something he hoped he could avert in the future.

"I'm sorry." Yaxley apologized at once, his voice sighing before locking his jaw, "I didn't mean to take my irritation out on you – I have the boy for that."

His eyes moved back to the sleeping prisoner. He could barely make out the boy, due to the fact that the only light was that of burning torches that were being held by the copious amount of guards and Michael – after all they could not expect there to be light at five A.M in the morning in late February.

The fires around Yaxley were a steady, dull orange color, indication that they had been lit several hours ago. One of the torches that had been abandoned on the floor was smoldering rather than burning.

"This Marauder was specially picked for the assignment," Michael said awkwardly. "He must be exceptional among their organization – braver than most. Of course his actions speak for this theory. I think that it might even be possible Sir that he volunteered to do the job."

"Who among such an organization Mr. Carrow, would not volunteer if asked to do something for their idea of the greater good? But, is that really the case her? Is the greater good really serviced by this? Or are they trying to corrupt the whole of England and our British empire? The question, my apprentice, is not his willingness, but what the final outcome of their plan is. What are they aiming for? The sooner we know, the sooner we can disband these… terrorists."

The guards were discussing the Marauder as well. Yaxley could hear the whispers clearly; their voices were rising now, getting louder and more rowdy with their excitement.

"He killed six guards before we caught him."

"I was informed of seven."

"I hear he's an _actual _one of the Marauders. Can you believe that?"

"Is that even possible?"

"He's too young isn't he? Surely not!"

"He is! I swear it, but which of the four is he?"

"I don't believe it! He isn't a Marauder!"

"He is! Started when he was fifteen! Apparently he was in the business for years before though."

"Really – only fifteen?"

"Quiet! Please!" Yaxley interrupted, his voice low and in a hiss as he looked at the guards with disdain "If you cannot observe professionally and quietly, then I will feel no remorse to remove you from the premises. If this traitor to the king isn't fully awake, the proper way may I add, during his execution, he will not fully feel the pain! Were you all born without intellect?"

Abashed, the six guards fell silent and edged away from one another.

"Let's get on with this Michael."

Everything was prepared. The appropriate rope and knot was dangling down from the post used for executions when hanging was involved. The Marauder's dark hair had been cut short, exposing his slender neck. Everything had been thought through extremely well. Deep in his sleep, the prisoner breathed slowly in and out. His sun-browned skin had barely an untouched mark from his…accident.

"Wake him Michael."

The brown-haired man was already waiting by the cell, listening for his order, his hand resting on the look with a brass key in his right hand. Gingerly, he placed the key in the keyhole and twisted it to the left. Then he placed the flaming torch in one of the hoists on the damp wall.

With the cell door now open, Yaxley took a few steps into the prison, Michael entering slowly behind him. Yaxley concentrated on the unconscious body, as if he expected it to jump up and attack him at any second, before he took his silver rimmed dagger from one of the hoists in his belt. Moving the prisoners left arm away from his body Yaxley bent down. Like he was an artist, he etched the dagger through the skin at the base of the prisoners left palm with small, precise movements, as he made his way carefully down the wrist to where the elbow was located. Careful not to damage any veins or arteries, Yaxley was finished within fifteen minutes, the traitor might die before the show began had the executioner gone wrong – and he knew that the country couldn't afford him to make a mistake.

"The crowd is ready Sir." Michael informed him, his expression solemn and slightly uncaring.

"So am I Michael, wake him."

Yaxley felt Michael at his elbow and knew without looking that his apprentice was admiring his handiwork on the Marauder's arm.

"It's so that when he's dead, they'll know who killed him."

Yaxley stood up and walked out of the cell, giving the guards in the corner a look that quickly sent them scattering off to their posts.

He turned then, and walked over to the rope gripping it, before looking at the crown with one of his evil grins. One girl stood out, a girl with blonde hair that was brighter than the reflective silver instrument that had been abandoned on the floor of the prisoner's cell. Like a living ribbon, she twisted and stretched, happy to be free from a night of sleep. Her thin, feathery dress fell softly like her pale hair. Though most girls were beautiful, this one seemed particularly graceful to Robert Yaxley, and he couldn't help but watch her curiously with several seconds.

"Here sir," He heard Michael whisper, as he pushed the Marauder up to the spot to Yaxley's left. The whole city was silent – no one made a sound – as Yaxley placed the rope over the traitors head, tightening it until it hung around the neck with slight ease, but not enough to slip off his neck.

As Robert Yaxley leaned down and whispered in the boy's ear, he wished that the traitor would impede the execution by giving him anything, a reaction – a betrayal to his own people. The scum of the earth – the organization. Anything that would make bringing the Marauder's down easier,

"There's no one to help you now. There's no one to help you, _Sirius Black_."


	2. Chapter 1

_A/N: Thanks for the follows for people who've followed this. I'm really glad you've liked it enough to follow the story! I hope you like the first official chapter of 'The Marauder's Choice'. But for the mean time - we're going back to the very start!_

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It would have been an altogether typical night for James Charles Potter, son of the Lord of Devon, had the events of the day not concluded in such a confusing and unforeseen way.

Starting at around six, with several snifters of both whiskey and brandy, James lost the sum of twenty pounds in the local pub. It seemed that arrogance and skill played no effect in the game of cards, and James immediately sighed internally at the thought of the scowl his father would wear when he asked for more money. Charles Potter, Lord of Devon would not be pleased at another request, due to the fact that many times he had stated that he would no longer offer any more financial help.

It seemed that the only reason James could even get through the day, was that his father did not want to damage his personal health by refusing his wife Dorea. Already within the month, he had quietly settled an outstanding bill with James' tailor and hair dresser and paid James' final installment for his own manor. It wasn't however, as if Charles Potter did not love his son, for that would be a devious lie – his father adored his only son, and wanted him to go far in life.

His son James had no chance of getting anywhere in life if he had to ask his father for money all the time – and so Charles remained adamant to try not to pay any installments as soon as his wife stepped down from her dominant parenthood.

James could imagine the lecture his father would throw at him with a slight hiss in his voice. His father would scold his son for what he called 'depraved behavior' or 'drunken mishaps.' However, after a few minutes of lecturing his son he would hand over whatever sum of money his son requested, had the request been fair. After all, Charles Potter could hardly refuse a request from a son who would be called upon at any one moment to fight against the newly formed organization 'The Order of the Phoenix'.

"What would you say to dinner at my club?" Jason Carpenter, a well built boy with dark brown hair asked, raking in his winnings, "As my guests of course."

"That's the least you can do," Said Leonardo Le Maitre, the other loser for the night, sarcastically. He was scrawny and short compared to Jason, and he had blonde hair that seemed almost white, "It's my money you'll be spending."

"Now, now," Jason said, as he smirked – stroking his invisible beard, "Let's not quarrel about it, I have no such qualms. What do you say, James?"

James wasn't eager to go home just yet either. He didn't want to fall asleep only to wake up the following morning with regret fluttering in his stomach, at the thought of having to ask his father for more money. Not yet… He'd much rather stay out until later when he couldn't properly think, before passing out on his bed. It was weird how he was only fourteen, and yet he was already treated as an adult.

"I'd prefer the Lion," He slurred, as he ran a hand through his hair. With dilated hazel eyes, and his messy clothing he looked like a carbon copy of his father – though his father had a much neater persona. Unlike his father however, James' personality was wild, and he was able to distract people with an easy flick of the wrist. Usually this helped him with card games – but Leonardo, the most trusted of the three friends, was always the dealer.

"The Lion it is then," Jason said, lumbering up from his chair – the three teenagers had all done a fair amount of drinking while gambling – "And maybe boys, a late night visit to Mme. Harris?" He winked broadly at James and Leonardo, while stuffing their pound notes into his pocket. He was in a good mood, and rightly so.

The three of them staggered out into Rosemary Street, sending several civilians and peasants scurrying out of their way, as they splashed through the muddy Devon thoroughfares. Together they made their way to the beckoning glow of the Lion tavern. A wooden sign – the tavern could not afford anything too fancy, like a metal sign – depicting a golden lion standing swung over the door. James could hear the roar and bluster of many voices, and the clattering of chalice's and cutlery from inside.

The door banged open as an obese man in no more than his underwear spilled out, his face red from alcohol misuse. Jason held the door open wide for James and Leonardo to enter, after the three had shuddered at the man who had shown more skin then they had ever wanted to see from another man…

Small oak tables ran the length of the low-ceilinged room, and a crackling fire burned in the vast stone hearth in the corner. Barmaids in barely anymore clothing than a bra and undergarments, moved among the diners with platters or roasted chicken and slabs of rare roast beef. Customers banged empty beer mugs on the wooden tabletops to signal the need for refills, oblivious to spiders sneaking through the wooden floor boards, from web to web. But James was neither hungry nor thirsty.

"Jason, give me back a fiver." James didn't bother sitting down like his two friends had, instead watching patiently for his friend to reach into his pocket and draw out a five pound note.

"What for?" Jason frowned, clearly confused. "I already said I'm buying."

"I'm going out back."

Nearly all the taverns had a fighting pit out back, but the Lion's was especially well attended. With a bit of luck, James would be able to win back what he'd lost at cards earlier. The plan was perfect in the back of James' head, and he was certain that he wouldn't need to go to his father.

"You're incorrigible." Jason replied with a sigh, while obligingly providing the five-pound note, "Such a Gambler…"

"I'll join you." Leonardo added, pushing himself out of his seat, whilst trying not to smile at Jason's shocked expression.

"You're leaving me to dine alone?"

"Not for long," James said, as he dragged Leonardo by the arm toward the rear door of the dank, humid tavern. "We'll be back with our winnings," He called over his shoulder.

Behind the tavern there was a filthy alley, littered with bones and straw, and beyond that an old stable that had been converted to gaming use. It was extremely warm and rancid inside; flaming torches burned from the hoists holding them to the walls, illuminating the mob that crowded around the fighting pit – a square about fifteen feet on each side, and perhaps four feet deep.

The pit boss, bare-chested and sporting a burn like tattoo of the letters 'G.B' across his back, was standing in its centre, announcing the next game. The sand in the floor of the pit was wet with blood and saliva and was littered with scraps of mangled fur. The sight was sickening and yet it was nothing any of the gamblers had never seen before.

"We've got Duke, a black and tan," He shouted aloud, "And we got Marsh! If you make way, gentlemen, you will gain the opportunity of seeing these fine beasts before making your wagers!"

The crowd parted quickly, opening crooked avenues for two men with pit-bulls on short chains, their muzzles with rope. The dogs strained ferociously at their leashes as they moved toward the lip of the pit, and it was all their owners could do to keep them from leaping inside or going after each other. James eyed the dogs up curiously, looking for their strengths and their weakness's.

"First we Duke, Gentlemen, and he hails from Tamerton Avenue!" The boss announced, "And then we got Marsh, why Marsh's the pride of Verity Lane. Two fine champions, Gentlemen, and a right even match. So place your bets!" He cried out, giving a signal to his workers to start taking in bets, before stepping out of the pit. Within seconds he had rolled a barrel to its rim.

"Have you seen either of them fight?" Leonardo asked, leaning close to James' ear to be heard over the roar of the crowd. Due to many of his experiences, Leonardo noticed that when it came to gambling, James was normally a good person to ask.

"Yeah, I've won on Marsh once." James replied, while raising his hand to a passing bookmarker who wore a dull navy suit, "Five on Marsh!"

"Make it ten!" Leonardo threw in.

The bookmarker tipped his cap – as they were clearly gentlemen, it seemed he would not insist on cash in advance – and turned to an old drunk pulling at his sleeve.

"Last call, gentlemen," The boss called out as he pounded on the closed barrel at the rim of the pit. James noticed, as he always did, that the barrel had a small shake to it. "Place all bets!"

There was a sudden flurry of cries and raised hands as the dog's masters removed the ropes from their muzzles. The dogs barked furiously, foam flying from their lips. Within seconds a bell rang, the pit boss shouted, "All done!" and everyone's eyes turned toward the barrel. The boss quickly yanked off its lid, and with his foot, tipped it over.

A swarm of rats, black, brown and grey, tumbled out and fell in a frenzied torrent into the pit. They righted themselves quickly and ran in all directions, some biting at each other, other's scrambling at the wooden boards that lined the pit. Several actually managed to get out, but the laughing gamblers quickly kicked them back in again. Flea's jumped about from rat to rat, some jumping on certain people before being flicked off almost as quickly as they had appeared.

The dogs went into a frenzy at the sight of the rats, and their owners had no sooner unhooked the leads when the dogs sailed into the pit, jaws snarling and claws bared. The white one was the first to make a kill, grabbing a fat gray rat and biting clear through it.

James clenched a fist in triumph, and Leonardo shouted, "Good job Marsh!"

Duke, the black and tan, quickly evened the score, shaking a brown one like a rag until its head flew off. The rats scurried to the sides of the pit, climbing over each other's backs in their rushed attempts to escape. Marsh lunged at the one on top of a pile and tossed it into the air. The rat landed on its back, and before it could turn over Marsh had lunged for its belly and ripped it open with one swipe.

There was a cheer from Marsh's supporters in the crowd.

And so it went for the full five minutes. Bone and blood and bits of rat flew everywhere – James always made it a moral to stand well back so that his clothes wouldn't get messier than they already were – but at some point Marsh seemed lose his enthusiasm for the kill and decided to eat his prey. That was not good training, James thought. Even he knew that while the dog should be kept hungry before a fight, enough to keep its instinct for blood alive, it should not be so starved that it stopped to consume its prey. It seemed that Marsh's trainer had been scarcely harsh with food supplies before the fight this week.

"Get up Marsh!" Leonardo shouted, as did many others, but the dog remained on all fours, chewing the dead rodents scattered around its paws. Duke, meanwhile, continued with his grim business.

James could see his money evaporating even before the bell rang and the boss called out, "Time gentlemen!" The dogs' masters leapt into the pit, landing between the dogs and among the few maimed rats still crawling about, half-alive. James realized his mistake immediately; he should have noticed at first sight of the dogs that Marsh was not acting the way many winning dogs acted before the rats had been thrown into the pit.

The pit boss looked to his fellow judge – a dirt covered man holding the bronze bell – and announced, "Its Duke, gentlemen! Duke of Tamerton Avenue has carried the day with a baker's dozen!"

There was a happy clamor from Duke's supporters, and the passing of notes and coins among the crowd. The bookmaker in the cap appeared in front of James, who grudgingly handed him the fiver. Leonardo did the same. However as the bookmaker walked away, James managed to pull a pound note out of his pocket unnoticed.

"Won't Jason gloat…" Leonardo sighed, oblivious to the crime James had just committed. James knew he was right, but he had already put the loss out of his mind. He thought that it was always best not to dwell on the past.

"Hey! Hey Moron! I want my money!" He heard a boy, around his age shout as he pushed his way through the crowd, "I bet half a pound on Duke and I want my winnings!"

Most of the crowd laughed outright at the boy, who was clearly poor due to the fact that he was wearing torn clothes, as the commented on how poor he seemed,

"Only betting half a pound? What a joke!"

"No wonder the child's angry, probably needs it back to buy his food!"

"Look at how terrible his clothes are!"

The pit boss looked at the boy with a smirk on his face – though the boy seemed tall, and was covered in more dirt than the other judge who had the bronze bell, he wasn't nearly as tall as the pit boss – before looking at his workmates with a grin.

"Sorry Kid, you didn't bet on anything, we would have given you your money if you had. Honest!" He laughed, looking at the poor child with a look of satisfaction, as if teasing him was the most appealing hobby for him to take part in. Which it probably was,

The boy pulled something out of his pocket, a knife that by far was the expensive thing he probably owned. With a diamond encrusted rim on the handle it was probably something that the boy had stolen. The pit boss laughed once again, right in the boys face,

"You think you're going to use your knife on me?" He laughed, "Stop it! I think the only way you could even hurt me in the slightest would be to make me laugh to death. Your knife wouldn't hurt me, now with you wielding it."

The rest of the crowd started to join into the laughter, making the boy start to go red in anger (or embarrassment James wasn't quite sure). Suddenly, however, the boy snarled,

"You'll pay for that you syphilitic swine! You foul human being! And yeah, I don't even need my knife!"

He sprang from the spot where he was stood quickly as he tackled the pit boss into the pit with a _THUD_. Immediately, the boy sprung back up to his feet, and with one sharp kick into the pit boss' stomach he was knocked unconscious. If the pit boss was bleeding anywhere from either the fall or the kick, it wasn't visible against the already bloodied terrain beneath him.

"Take that as a message from the Order of the Phoenix. Respect us, because as you can see – our patience is wearing thin." The boy shouted, causing the room to fall silent as he smiled slightly, reaching down into the Pit boss's pocket and taking out several notes.

"That seems like enough for payment." He muttered to himself, climbing out of the pit and pushing his way through the shocked crowd, before taking off down the road in a sprint. Immediately James took off after him, running for what seemed like hours – days – but was actually only mere minutes."

"Hey!" James finally shouted out when they were out in the countryside without a person in sight, "Hey stop!"

The boy immediately stopped, turning on his heel, and holding the knife out in front of him in case James tried anything. James got close enough to the boy to see a scar across his bare shoulder. The boy, narrowed his eyes at James, as he examined the messy haired boy before snarling,

"I can't possibly be interesting to you. Why are you here?"

"You'd be surprised." James spoke calmly, approaching the boy slowly as if trying to catch a bird, "I didn't mean to offend you. You said something earlier about the Order of the Phoenix. What are they trying to do? May I ask?"

James was waiting to see if this calmed the boy down – make him seem more human, and it did. "You want to know about the order?" The boy asked, cocking his head to the side in a confused matter, while staring at James with a curious glimmer in his golden eyes.

James nodded, "Yeah I do, but do you mind if we sit down though? You run really fast and not to mention far! My legs are just aching…"

The boy nodded, as they both sat down on the watery grass, still opposite one another. Immediately James extended his hand, thinking that the sooner he introduced himself the sooner, he would be more comfortable with the boy who just knocked a pit boss unconscious with nothing more than a sharp tackle and a kick. "I'm James."

The boy seemed to understand what James was doing, as he shook James' hand,

"R.J."

"So… uhm… anyways about the order of the Phoenix, can you tell me about it?"

R.J twirled the knife in his hand several times, and then held it in front of his torso, looking at James as if unsure of what to make of the messy haired boy yet.

"You're not some kind of Guard in training or one of the king's intelligent agents are you? Because if you are, you're doing a terrible job, and I can kill you in seconds."

James laughed slightly, "Why would you think that?"

"Because I'm smart, and we live in an age of idiots. For all I know, they've sent a weed of a boy to track me down so that I can't prove to local citizens that the government is corrupted and that the king is an evil man who craves power – even though it plainly is. The King is evil, the government agrees with his every word, and all the civilians in the country believe his choices are for the greater good! So go ahead – try and arrest me now."

"Relax!" James let out a laugh, "You're sounding a little paranoid – maybe a lot – if you don't mind my saying so."

"Just because you're paranoid," R.J observed, clicking his tongue on the top of his mouth "Doesn't mean that you're not being followed. You always have to be on the lookout see…"

"True enough, I can see your point." James replied, "But I like to think I'm one of the good guys. I don't work for anyone and I think the government is full of pansies. Anyway… I thought you were going to tell me about the order of the Phoenix and stuff…"

James detected the first glimmer in R.J's eyes that he was to see throughout the rest of his life.

"Oh right!" R.J. said, "Yeah," With studied nonchalance he put his knife back in his hoist and crossed his arms. "We're an organization that is planning on bringing back freedom to the country. You know human rights and all that? I mean, if you think about it, Lord Potter is fair in his county, he doesn't believe that the world should have only the rich and intelligent, but… have you ever been to any other counties?"

James said yes, though, privately, he had to admit that his knowledge on counties was extremely sketchy and one-sided.

"Well if you go to the counties where Lord Black, Lord Le'strange and Lord Malfoy are in charge, you'll see the difference. They believe that there is absolutely nothing better than jewels and being able to write and read. Not that they really have intelligence at all! They believe that only those with the purest of blood – should be treated like royalty – and those not born into working class should be treated as if they're peasants. Did you know they actually torture their own citizens for the fun of it, and raise the taxes so that those without money can't feed their families…?"

There was no stopping him. R.J didn't even need to take a breath,

"…And so our leader founded the order of the Phoenix a few years ago, teaching some of us how to read and write. Important things that will get us somewhere in life, you know what I'm saying? If we can make it so that people who are smart and posses skills like none others – we can literally wipe out those parasites before they wipe our rights to live!"

R.J spoke as if he was describing the sound of violin and piano music to his ears, it was as if he was a young child with his eyes gleaming – reflecting – from the full moon above him, making his gold eyes look menacing and fierce.

"And that's all I can tell you about the Order without having to give you some kind of memory loss."

James wondered if this was R.J's usual sort of conversation filler,

"I've got to get back…" James spoke more to himself than to R.J, but either way R.J's eyes darkened slightly.

"You aren't coming with me? I thought that you wanted to join the Order? Why would you just want to sit back and do nothing?" He asked, and for a second the expression on his face made James believe that R.J wanted to pull his knife out again. However, luckily the boy didn't.

"I can't just leave my family and friends!" James shouted trying to make his voice heard over the new growl of the wind. R.J frowned,

"You've got to come! It's not exactly like they're at all fully dedicated to you anyway. I mean they'll give you cash and stuff to help you out if you're in a tight spot, but you won't have that bond with them like you will with the whole organization."

"Yes I will!" James didn't know why he was suddenly so protective, but he put it down to loyalty, "I have a bond with my family and my friends. They don't just give me stuff, I give them stuff too! It's not a take relationship I have."

R.J shook his head, a look of disbelief on his face, as he stood up. With a sigh, he said,

"Not that kind of bond. You can live without the bond of your parents," R.J looked slightly sad at this point but he continued anyway, "and you're so called friends don't have that kind of bond with you else they would've followed you when you came after me!

"Gods, what I'm talking about is the bond that… when you put yourself at deaths door, just to help one of your friends, because you know they'll return the favor. The kind of bond that even when your being sent to you death you can count on your team to get you out of your own execution alive. That kind of bone, not a give and take relationship you have with people you know and associate as friends. I mean the kind of bond that lets you know that you're all fighting for the same thing, and that you'll actually DIE trying. It's this thing that makes you know that when you do, you're friends will pick up exactly where you left off."

James stared at R.J in amazement, as he blinked several times,

"So… I'll ask you again," R.J said with something that looked like a mixture between a smile and a grin, "You coming or not? Because if you are, we're leaving right now,"

All James could do was nod slowly, taking R.J's hand that was offered to help him up.

"There's so much that you're to learn." R.J spoke with his grin. "Like for instance, did you know that the king is having an affair with a woman called Alyssa Wolfe?"

"What?" James choked out, as he brushed specks of dirt off of his shirt, "Why would he do that?"

"He doesn't love his wife, but he believes that everyone has their place. He wants to keep the royal blood pure, and he wouldn't want to marry a peasant would he? Oh no then he would have a half-blood prince on his hands, and how would he explain that to all those pure blood fanatics?"

"I don't know?" James was confused beyond recognition.

"Don't worry, I'll explain later. I'll show you a lot more when we get back." R.L said consolingly, as if he could read James' expression, "It's thrilling to know."

James nodded gingerly, slightly surprised when R.J turned to look over his shoulder.

"What is it?" He asked almost immediately, as he watched the boy shiver, "What's wrong?"

R.J's eyes almost immediately focused back on James, and in reply he shook his head,

"Nothing, just being paranoid I suppose. Come on, let's go."

Behind them, at the top of the hill beneath the moonlight however, stood a young boy with blood matted in his hair, and a cotton bear held limply in his right hand.


End file.
